And So He Waited
by puddle-of-lemonade
Summary: He knew it had been time enough, but it still hurt. They were dead, long gone, and not coming back... But once in his life, they had been everything to him. And he couldn’t forget that. HarryDraco post-war
1. Sadness

**( Sadness )**

The gate creaked as he pushed it open. Snow, mud and gravel crunched under his boots as he walked under the barren trees. It was so cold he could see his breath. One by one, step by step, he passed the silent statues and headstones. On the far-side of the graveyard, he stopped and stared. He pulled a gloved hand out of his jacket pocket and dusted off the snow from the top of a gravestone. He let his hand rest upon it for a moment, as he read the engravings.

_James and Lily Potter_ .

It felt like their ashes were in his hands, rather than a wilting bouquet of flowers. He let his hand fall back to his side, and took a step back. He crouched down and lay the flowers over his parents' grave. He had never really known them. But their absence in his life . . . it felt like a wound that would never heal. And standing before the last remains of them made him feel just that little bit closer to what he had never known. A seemingly closer step to the unattainable, he knew, but he did not mind. He didn't care if others thought the sentiment silly, because it was just something he did, and he did it for himself. Standing where he was, he had no-one to impress.

He stood up and stuffed his hand in his pocket once more. The chill made his cheeks and nose slightly numb, and sent shivers down his body. He sighed, then let his gaze wander to the headstones that lay to the side, not far from him. He felt a stillness grip his heart, a breathless quiet that covered his thoughts.

_Ronald Weasley._

_Hermione Granger._

He closed his eyes for a moment, to collect himself, to stop the tears before they could even form. He knew it had been time enough, but it still hurt. He couldn't forget. They were dead, long gone, and not coming back. Once in his life, they had been everything to him. They had been Harry, Ron and Hermione, best friends forever. But their forever had ended, too quickly, too suddenly, like a candle doused by the wind. He had been left behind again and left to mourn alone. Sometimes, he wondered if that was his lot in life.

He found himself walking away, feeling numb. There were many more other graves of people he had known one way or another. But he couldn't look at them – not now. He'd mourn them in turn. He'd let the memories settle and he would remember each and every one of them, because _someone_ had to remember. He could not let their deaths be in vain, or their mistakes and triumphs forgotten. But still, the war had come at too high a price for what they gained.

_What's the point in saving the world, when there's no-one left to live in it?_

He thought it ironic that all the people who mattered to him, found their way to this single graveyard. Perhaps someone had thought it considerate, or maybe even kind, to put them in one place for him. For Harry Potter, their hero – their _Saviour._

But as he walked away, he wondered if he was the one who needed saving now.


	2. Remembrance

**( Remembrance )**

Harry pulled the blanket around his shoulders tighter, as he turned the page of his book. His fingers ached and were stiff from the cold. But then they felt like they were burning when he held his cup of hot tea, which sat half-empty. He took a sip here and there, when he remembered he could. But his mind wandered and was soon followed by his eyes. For a second, he had the urge to do something, maybe write a letter – to someone, anyone.

But then he stared at the empty perch that was gathering dust. He hadn't bought another owl since Hedwig, and wasn't planning too. Sometimes the thought hurt too much, other times it didn't. It wasn't like he had anyone left to write to anyway.

He shook his head. The action served as much a purpose as to get his hair out of his face as to clear his head of the memories – of those letters he'd never receive again. All those letters of Hermione's, all persistently, earnestly asking how he was and if he was studying enough. He'd give anything to tell her that he wasn't okay, that he was missing her more than he ever thought possible and that he wanted to hear her voice just one more time, even if she lectured him about some nonsense like she had done so many times before.

Harry closed his book. He didn't want to be consumed, but it was hard not to. They were too many memories, too many old and new hurts. As he sat in an old, musty armchair, swathed in blankets, under very same roof his parents had lived and died under so long ago, he found he didn't know where he wanted to go anymore. He felt too old, too trapped in his twenty-one-year body. He had never really known freedom, or what it was like to be young and care-free. Life had been one challenge after the other. One loss after the other. He had lost so many things, too many to count.

No, he didn't want to be consumed by the past. But he was tired of fighting. He wanted the hurt and bitterness to _go_. He wanted to know what it was like to _live_.

He looked down at his hands, scarred and worn, shaking, always shaking. He clenched his hands into fists, but it didn't stop, only made the shaking worse. He felt weak, incredibly weak. Three summers had come and gone, but the shaking of his body hadn't. It had been like this since the war, since the Last Battle.

He looked up, out of a frosted window, to watch the snow gently fall. He took the last sip of his tea, which had become almost cold, then opened his book again. He let himself fall into its world, where he did not exist or had to think or feel. It was a small reprieve, nothing that he would remember in time, but in that moment, it was everything to him.

Like the dreams he wished he had in the place of the nightmares.


	3. Acquaintance

**( Acquaintance )**

Crouching by the hearth, Harry laid another log of wood onto the fire. He watched the tiny flames lap at the wood and climb up it, growing as they went. He didn't like fire, but its warmth was something he now depended on in these winter days. He could never really get too close, or he would find himself remembering the black smoke that had risen into the sky, giant and monstrous as it fled the smouldering ruins of the Burrow. Or how human flesh looked and smelled like as it burned under his wand.

He sat down on the cold floorboards, his hands outstretched before him in an effort to warm them. His whole body ached from the cold, the scars that littered his body held ghosts of their old pain and his hands, they shook and quivered like leaves in the wind. Around him, the house in Godric's Hollow moaned and creaked with the howling winds. He could hear the branches of trees knocking, scraping and thrashing against windows and the roof.

The house seemed old in a way that Grimmauld Place could never match. Laughter rose up in his chest till he felt like he was almost choking on it. It was bitter in its aftertaste. An old man in and old house, he thought grimly to himself.

Harry didn't feel young. He didn't know how people could, after facing war. No-one could ever be the same again. They could never look at things in the same light. They would never stop wanting those yesterdays. . .

Or at least, that was how he was.

The wind lulled outside, a brief calm, and that was when Harry heard the knocking. It echoed through the dark hallways, ringing slightly in his ears. For a moment, he stayed completely still, suddenly terrified of what that noise could mean. But then he took in a shaky breath, and scrambled up to his feet, leaving the blankets by the fire. Each footstep sounded incredibly loud to him as he walked to the entrance hall.

He came up to the door, unlocked a series of locks and chains, and reached for the handle. His hand shook and with wide eyes he faltered. He snatched back his hand and clutched at his jacket. He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want people to see him like this.

_So weak . . ._

The second bout of knocking jerked him out of his thoughts and he took a step back, hating the panic thrumming through his body. For a moment, Harry listened to the whistling roar of the wind beyond the walls. It was cold outside, and the person hadn't left. And that person was cold like Harry always was. A surge of simple pity rose forth and the courage came with it – he grabbed the door-handle and tugged it down. He cracked the door open and peered out.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was Draco Malfoy.

A part of Harry wanted to close the door again, while another lonely part didn't. He stood frozen and torn, till he heard a voice say, 'Harry? Is that you?'

Harry gulped, feeling slightly faint, but he opened the door wide nevertheless. His eyes found Draco's and they stared at one another. Against the grey sky and rows of bare trees, it was almost like Draco was the subject of an old black and white photograph. His hair was short, windswept, and his pale face flushed from the cold. The traces of the boy Harry had known were gone and in its place, stood a man with a hard, weathered face. Harry could see the line and small hollows by his cheekbones. His eyes were deep-set, and dark rings lay under them. He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, but yet he did not seem bigger or towering. He had a thick scarf wrapped around his neck and was bundled up in layers upon layers of clothes that seemed worn, and not his own.

'Can I come in?' Draco asked quietly. His eyes were guarded, but there was hopeful glint to them that shocked Harry more than anything else.

'Yeah,' Harry dumbly said, then moved out of the way for him. He watched the blond-haired man walk in, as he looked around with not even a sniff of disdain, or even indifference at the neglected state of the house. Harry closed the door, locking it up once more and added, 'I have a fire going.'

Draco nodded, then followed him to the other room. He didn't say anything when Harry covered himself with his blankets and huddled closer to the fire. He just silently sat on the chair closest to the fire and looked into it. Harry blamed it on the shock, but he couldn't stop looking at Draco. Time flowed strangely in this house, sometimes disappearing so quickly that it was hard to catch up, but at others, it moved slowly and ponderously. He could hardly believe it . . . but it had been three years since Harry had seen Draco, since the war had ended.

_Three long years._

Fate had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. He looked far older than he really was. Harry guessed that's what a year in Azkaban did to a man, even if there were no Dementors left. He had heard bits of news here and there, of how Malfoy Manor had been ransacked till there had been nothing left. Of how the Ministry had commandeered the Malfoy fortune, leaving but a pittance. And he had seen the graves of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry had tried, too little effect, to stop the sudden want of the populace for 'justice' and revenge against the remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort had fallen. But it had been too strong, there had been too much hatred, for even the Boy-Who-Lived to control. It had angered Harry at one stage, as he couldn't believe how foolish the masses were to do exactly what their enemies had done to them. It was just asking for retribution in turn, an excuse that those bastards could fall back on if they would ever rise up again. But now, after these many years of change, most thought Harry Potter dead. He had no power left, even if he had wanted to use it.

Harry waited for Draco to speak. In the height of the war, they had been forced to become partners. Indeed, petty schoolboy rivalries have no place there. Instead, they had no choice but to trust each other. They had fought and killed together. They saved each other's lives beyond count. They had cried and laughed together. They had smiled at one another when they were certain they would die, just because they wanted to one last time. They had been weapons, pawns, servants, soldiers and wizards together, side by side.

In the war, they had been friends.

Harry didn't know where he stood. But he waited, as he had done before, for he knew that Draco wouldn't speak before he had sorted out all he would say in his head.

'How have you been?' Draco asked after a little while.

Harry looked at him, frowning, before he cleared his face of expression. 'I've been remembering,' he answered quietly.

'It seems like you're hiding,' Draco countered dryly.

Under the blankets, Harry's hands rolled into fists. He pointedly looked into the fire. 'I'm not,' he said shortly.

'It took me quite a while to find out where you were,' Draco carried on, a touch airily. 'Some even told me you were dead. Your friends, your fellow _war heroes_ - ' he almost sneered the words, ' - haven't seen you in months apparently.'

Harry felt a pang of loneliness at his words. They were true, all true. He curled into himself and didn't say anything, because he didn't want to. He didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to deal with it.

'Why did you choose here? Of all places?' Draco asked. He didn't sound arrogant, as he once would have. He merely sounded curious. Tired and curious.

'I don't know.'

Draco stared at him, blinked, then shook his head. 'I guess we've all changed.'

Harry nodded, feeling a sadness drift through him. Change. A thing he had wanted once, but never knew the cost of it.

Draco straightened slightly, rubbing his hands together. 'Can I stay here for a while?'

What felt like a cold hand seemed to grip his heart. Harry blinked, then began to be afraid of the coming of tears. 'I-I . . .' he stuttered, then looked down. 'I d-don't know.' He felt so guilty, so utterly wretched for what he was about to say. 'I'm sorry. I-you c-can't. Every time I look at you – I remember. . . and it hurts.'

When Harry looked up again, Draco was still looking at him. His face was unreadable. A part of Harry wondered when he had become so good at hiding things. He never had been before. Draco had been so easy to rile up or offend.

'I have nowhere else to stay.'

They way he said it made Harry stop and look - really _look_ at him. He saw a man who was tired – tired of all the things life had thrown at him. A man who had lost nearly everything, left only to worry about finding a safe place to sleep at night and whether he'd get food at the end of the day or not. This man had not lived the life he had envisioned, had dreamed of, been promised all his youth. This was a man who knew rock-bottom.

'Okay,' Harry breathed, looking away. 'You can stay.'


	4. Warmth

**( Warmth )**

A spell whispered through the air.

Harry watched it as it flew and landed, as it splattered across the beams and twisted the rotten wood into back into shape. Another spell careened up to the roof, this time to fix a clump of broken tiles above the beams. Harry clutched at his blanket, pulling it tighter around himself, and frowned.

'Oh, sorry,' a voice said a moment later, and Harry looked down to find Draco staring at him, his wand poised. He had shed a few layers of clothing, and rolled back his sleeves to bare his lower arms. The Dark Mark lay faded on his skin.

'What?' Harry asked dazedly. The frown returned, falling upon Draco. 'Why are you apologising?' In Harry's mind, the word 'sorry' sounded very foreign on the man's tongue.

'I never asked,' Draco carried on, gesturing to the roof absently, ' – if I could fix it.'

Harry gave him a look of disbelief, then shook his head bemusedly. 'No, it's all right. Do whatever you deem fit,' he said, then gazed back into the fire, watching the flames dance around one another. He listened to Draco softly whisper the spells, huddling deeper into his nestle of blankets. Slowly, the room felt warmer and the chill faded away.

'Can I take one of the upstairs rooms?' Draco asked as he came over to stand next to Harry.

Harry peered up at him through his glasses. He stared at the Dark Mark for a moment, his expression unchanging, before his gaze fell down again. 'Sure. Just leave the nursery.'

He could feel Draco's eyes on him, but he didn't look up again. He didn't want to. He didn't want to know if the man pitied him. Poor Harry Potter, in his self-imposed exile, he thought sardonically to himself.

'All right,' Draco sighed as he turned away. Harry listened to his echoing footsteps, each sound adding to a deep sadness that settled in his belly.

'It's still the same,' he blundered out, almost breathless in a way. He didn't know why he wanted to speak about it. It was silly. And he felt like he was about to cry again. 'I couldn't go in there.'

He clenched his eyes tight, and nearly started when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He took in a deep, shaky breath. 'I know,' Draco murmured to him, sounding curiously gentle. 'I can't go back to my home. And you can't go back into that room. It's just how it is.'

His whole body shook from that simple touch. It had been so long since he had felt the warmth of another human being. He ducked his head, and curled into himself, fighting back the tears. He didn't know whether he wanted that touch for just a little while longer, or if he wanted to brush it off.

'You're shaking,' Draco stated bemusedly. He withdrew his hand and stared at Harry, a slight frown on his face. 'Can I put a Warming Charm on you?'

Harry nodded, not looking into the other man's eyes. Suddenly, he felt a rush of warmth flood through his body, numbing the aching. It had been so long since he had felt this warm. Even his shaking had lessened – it was a welcome relief.

'Stupid Gryffindor,' he heard Draco mutter as he left the room. 'So bloody stubborn. . . you even have to fight against the _weather_.' He then tsked, and Harry felt like he had to be imagining things, because those words had sounded almost affectionate.


	5. Past

**( Past )**

'Harry . . .' she said, her whisper piercing the quiet that had fallen. 'You have to stop hiding. You can't keep on rejecting the world outside this house.'

In his armchair, Harry shifted beneath his layers of blankets. He looked over at the woman across from him, at her determined expression, her fiery red hair that fell over a shoulder, and her clenched fists in her lap. Her knuckles were white, her hands small. She seemed delicate to him, like Aunt Petunia's old china.

'I'm not,' he murmured, listening to the crackle of the fire.

Ginny glared at him, her freckled cheeks slightly flushed. 'You are, Harry. You haven't contacted anyone in _months_.'

He scowled, 'I have.'

'Anyone that is _alive_, Harry,' she cut in ruthlessly. 'You can't keep on wandering around amongst the dead.' She looked to the side crossly. 'I've waited, like you asked. But _three years_, Harry?'

Harry's expression collapsed into a mixture of sadness and guilt. 'I'm sorry, Ginny. I just don't know anymore. I lost so many things in the war, more than anyone else.'

'But you haven't lost everything. I can't keep on waiting for you,' she carried on in a low, angry whisper. 'I can't keep my life on hold for you. I want to _live_, Harry. I want to experience this life we fought for- what my family and Hermione died for.'

Harry gripped the arms of his chair tightly, not letting himself react. He didn't want to start crying in front of Ginny. He wouldn't be able to take her pity. But her words hurt, like someone had stabbed his heart over and over.

'I . . . love you,' she said, her voice thick with tears. 'I think I always will. But I can't wait any longer. I'm moving on.'

Harry slipped off his chair and shakily pulled her into an embrace. As he held her, she let out a sob into his shoulder. 'I'm so, so sorry, Ginny,' he whispered. 'It was unfair and selfish of me to ask that of you. But I guess it's better this way. I don't deserve someone like you.' He stroked her hair carefully, tenderly, as she sobbed. 'Move on. Go find someone who has fire and too much love to give. You deserve that, and much more, okay?'

He felt her nod against his shoulder, and she sniffed loudly. She held onto him tightly, almost fiercely, as if she wanted to preserve this moment in her memory forever. 'Harry . . . just promise me that you'll start to live again,' she said quietly, determinedly. She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and shining.

'I promise.'

A while later, after he had closed the door behind her, he turned around to see Draco leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, his face thoughtful. As Harry stared at him, Draco said, 'You lied, didn't you?'

It didn't surprise Harry that he had been eavesdropping. Old habits die hard, after all. Besides, his heart was aching and there was no space for anger in it at the moment. He glanced back at the door, imagining a red-headed woman walking on the dirt road, her hand poised at her ear as she drew her hair back out of the wind's reach. She was walking ahead, away from a part of their lives they had had together. What they had would be only memories now, devoid of a useless hope of another beginning. She would always be young and beautiful in his mind.

'She has to move on,' he replied.


	6. Loss

**( Loss )**

Harry moved a few coals around with a pair tongs, shifting them so they surrounded a can of beans. As he watched the sauce bubble, he warmed his hands – rubbing them together now and then to speed the process along. The house creaked around him, and the wind howled and whistled through the hallways. When he looked up through one of the frosted windows, he saw a smudge of what he assumed was a crescent moon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a light. His body tensed, and his mind raced as he thought of what the light could mean – a Death Eater raid, renegade Dark wizards coming for revenge or even burglars – but then he forced himself to relax. The war had ended. It had ended over three years ago, he reminded himself over and over as he clutched at his blanket with a hand. He had nothing to fear, nothing to fear . . .

Draco walked in, his wand held aloft and its tip alit. His grey eyes were narrowed, but they softened when they found Harry. He doused his _Lumos _and sat down on the floorboards next to Harry, his knees bent and his elbows upon them. Harry gave him a sidelong glance as he picked up the tongs, noting the pensive way the man was looking at the glowing embers. Harry poked the can back into place, then sat back and curled deeper into his blankets.

'Why don't you spell it warm?' Draco asked quietly, not looking at him.

Harry shrugged. 'I don't mind waiting.'

'And you don't mind being cold either, right?' Draco said, and there was coldness to his voice that Harry remembered from a time before the war. Suddenly, it made him nostalgic. And then silly for missing something like Draco's childhood animosity towards him. But he shoved those feelings away and sent a frown at the man at his side.

'And where is this going . . .?' Harry asked, feeling suddenly tired.

'Every day since I've come here, you sit by this fire,' Draco started quietly, almost dangerously. 'You just sit wrapped up in blankets. You don't say anything unless I speak first. You rarely get up to look after yourself. Sometimes, I find you asleep right here, rather than in a bed. You shake, I think almost all the time, and you don't use magic to change that.' Draco looked over at him, and Harry nearly started at the angry glint in his eyes. 'You're wasting away, Harry.'

Harry looked back at the coals and curled into himself, his chin resting on his knees. Softly, he said, 'I know.'

'You stupid idiot,' Draco muttered, sounding frustrated and angry. 'Are you torturing yourself still? Are you such an imbecile to think you can change things that happened _three years ago_ by brooding about it?'

Harry could feel the tears brim and fall, so he hid his face in his blankets. He didn't know anymore. He didn't know _what_ he doing . . . sometimes he felt like he was limbo, stuck in an unfeeling place, but at others, he swung between despair and hope like a seesaw. It seemed easier to just sit and try to forget.

'Why are you hiding?' Draco pressed. 'Tell me, for Merlin's sake, what did you do or not do to deserve this utter apathy in regard to yourself?'

'I don't know,' Harry said into his blanket, his whole body shaking alarmingly. 'I don't know anymore, Draco.'

'Yes, you do,' Draco said mercilessly. 'You're just too bloody stubborn to accept that.'

His hands turned into fists and he clenched his teeth together so hard it hurt. 'I don't,' he said shortly, once he had eased his jaw apart.

'Are . . . you _crying_?' Draco said a moment later, his voice shocked.

'Just shut up!' Harry bit out, a storm of emotions raging inside of him. 'You have _no idea_ of what I lost in that war! I lost everything! My family, my childhood, my innocence, my best friends and nearly my sanity. . .' He shut his eyes tight, gulping audibly to cut off a choked sob. 'I lost everything that made me _me_. Even my magic was not left out. Even my fucking _magic_ . . .'

Draco looked at him, stunned. 'You can't use magic anymore?'

'No, I can't,' Harry said bitterly, refusing to rub his eyes clear of tears. 'Now, have you got what you wanted, Malfoy? If so, get out.'

'No,' was the answer he got, a few moments later. 'I won't leave.'

Harry looked across at him, angry and confused. Draco frowned at the coals and the slowly bubbling can of beans and said exasperatedly, 'I have nowhere else to go. And someone has to look after you, you idiot.'

Harry scowled at him. 'What will you gain from this?'

Draco shrugged a shoulder, his face a near perfect portrayal of boredom. 'Shelter, food and companionship. And, of course, your eternal gratitude, Mr Potter. A right bargain, if I do say so myself.'

Harry found himself chuckling before he even knew it. He gazed over at Draco thoughtfully, before he unwound his arm from his blankets and offered his hand to him. Draco stared at it with barely concealed shock.

Harry smiled at him.

Draco glared at him.

But they shook hands anyway.


	7. Treasure

**( Treasure )**

'This tastes disgusting, you know,' Harry said, making a face at the half-full bottle. He swirled it around at eye-level with hand, frowning at it.

'Well, you have three years worth of muscle-repairing potions to make up for,' Draco said dryly as he chopped up a flobberworm. 'In a few months, the shaking will stop though.'

Harry silently stared at the potion bottle. He closed his eyes and gulped it down in one go, gagging slightly near the end. He gasped for air and gave Draco a glare. 'You're evil,' he said, a touch childish.

Draco chuckled in response. 'You only learnt that now? I say, _really._'

The glare turned into a scowl. 'You pompous peacock,' Harry muttered as he turned away.

'Thanks for the compliment,' Draco said amusedly, and Harry could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. 'Don't forget your potions at dinner now.'

Harry winced. 'I won't.'

He made his way to the door, but stopped just outside of Draco's room. His feet were urging him to wander down to the fireplace – an urge born from an old habit. He could feel Draco's Warming Charm humming over his skin, heating him up to the bone. He wasn't cold, and it had been a long time since he hadn't. It was strange to feel the other man's magic ghosting along his skin, but Harry found it comforting and almost touching in a way.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncertainly. He didn't want to sit by the fire alone. The thought didn't hold any comfort anymore. He wanted to sit down and watch Draco work on his potions and trade insults with him. Even though the venom behind their insults had gone, it was still fun to tease.

He turned around and took a seat on a chair on the far side of the room, which had a clear view of Draco working over his bubbling and steaming cauldrons. He watched the blond man intently grind up some ingredients for a moment, feeling strangely content. After a bout of silence, Draco looked up at him with a frown, 'What are you doing?'

'I'm watching you make potions,' Harry said, as if it was obvious.

'I know that,' Draco said exasperatedly, 'But _why_?'

'Because I want to.'

Draco stopped and stared at him. His gaze became gentle, then he turned back to his work without another word. Harry frowned - he had noticed the different looks Draco had sent his way. He treaded around Harry carefully most times, as if he was precious. It confused Harry, but he couldn't deny that his heart warmed at these glances. It made him feel cared for.

'You don't have to answer . . .' Harry started quietly, 'But what did you do after Azkaban?'

Draco's face became thoughtful as he stared down at his self-stirring ladle. 'I was forced into a reform program,' he said finally. 'But that didn't last long as the public outcry against it was too powerful. After a few months, we were either dead from personal vendettas, or pushed into hiding by the remaining reform supporters. I was in hiding with Kingsley Shacklebolt for a while, but I left after a nearly successful death threat against him. After that was the streets. And then the muggle world, because that was only place I could get work.'

Harry stared at him. A part of him felt incredibly guilty for not being there for Draco after all the man had done for him. But another was awed that Draco had survived all that. It made sense to Harry now why Draco had changed so much. It made him proud, and he didn't know why. Well, maybe he did, but the feeling still confused him.

Draco was looking at him, patiently waiting for a response, though his grey eyes were guarded. Harry tilted his head to side and gave him a sad smile. 'I'm sorry that I didn't know, that I wasn't there for you. If I had known, you would've had my help whether you liked it or not.'

Draco gave him a strange look, then sighed. 'You and your hero complex . . .' he murmured, then shook his head and looked down at his cauldrons. Though it was brief, Harry swore he saw a smile on Draco's face.

Harry got to his feet and walked up to him. Draco stopped and stared at him, his whole stance spoke of wariness, but Harry could see the small hopeful light in his eyes. Harry felt a smile spread across his face and he pulled Draco into an embrace. He held the man carefully, gently, as suddenly realised how painfully thin he was. How seemingly delicate he was.

Harry leaned back and looked at Draco – at his slightly pink cheeks, his shining, hopeful eyes and that smile of his that made Harry's heartbeat a little faster. As he smiled at Draco, he knew now what he wanted. What he thought he had nearly always had wanted.

Harry leaned forward and kissed him, softly then deeply. But always gently.

When they parted, Draco's breathless voice was filled with laughter and a little disbelief as he said, 'You taste like a potion.'

Harry kissed him again, then said, 'Your fault.'

'I know,' Draco said softly, their foreheads touching. 'But I can live with that.'


	8. Epilogue

**( Epilogue )**

He opened his eyes blearily, then reached out blindly for his glasses on the bedside table. When he had successfully retrieved them and placed them upon his nose, he sat up and yawned. Harry glanced around the room as he rubbed his neck tiredly. His eyes followed the rays of sunlight that flooded into the room from a window.

He could hear birds chirping, a sound he had nearly forgotten. He slipped off the bed and wandered over to the window. He opened it and stuck his head out, his eyes going wide when he saw blue sky. Small shoots of green were appearing on all the trees he could see, their branches coming alive with colour. He smiled.

Spring had arrived.

'Harry?' he heard Draco mumble as he shifted around in their bed. 'Get your ass back into bed. It's cold. And you're warm.'

Harry's smile widened. He slipped back under the sheets and Draco curled himself around him. A shiver went down his spine when Draco kissed his shoulder, his warm breath falling on his skin. After a comfortable silence, Draco's breathing evened out and Harry knew he was asleep. He looked out the window again, feeling ridiculously happy, in the face of the new season. With it came life and warmth, with it came beauty.

And as he lay there in Draco's arms, he could feel the whispers of love and magic rising up in him.


End file.
